Kill Your Mind
by E. H. Nighthawk
Summary: After Steve wakes up from the ice he's lost with no sense of purpose. Like Steve, Bucky can no longer remember who he is and what his reason for living is. A series of chapters paralleling Steve's and Bucky's emotions pre-Avengers, post-Avengers, and post-Winter Soldier. (Co-written with The Cocky Undead)
1. Chapter 1

**Kill Your Mind**

**[Adjustment]**

He could remember the white sheets; his mind was numb as he concentrated on the white.

His eyes focused on something only he could see. How could this have happened? His eyebrows drew together as he tried to remember and think. He could remember the crushing impact of the plane as the water and ice met it. Confusion and then nothing. The nothing was a relief to him after the jarring confusion. Even now his body could still remember the plane shaking, and waking up years later feeling something that happened years ago as if it were days ago was disconcerting.

He leaned his head back on the side of the van and closed his eyes. Waking up to white sheets and a pale room had soothed all his emotions. He had kept his eyes closed for a moment after waking and let the sounds of the radio and the fan calm him. The sheets had felt smooth beneath his hands. He felt alive, and that was more than he ever thought he would feel again.

Then came the sense of danger.

His confusion came back too, and it drove him to run. He slowed down as the sounds of a seemly louder and more colorful New York hit him. Everything was clamoring, and the smell had changed. Time Square had _changed._ The pictures moved and flashed in his face, and he had felt off-balance.

Men in suits had surrounded him, and he'd looked around wearily. After everything that had happened, he didn't think he could fight anymore. He didn't even know who he should be fighting against. The sense of loss and uncertainty grew.

He still wasn't sure. The blank men sitting across from him on the van's benches stared at him. Was that natural for them?

"You've been asleep for almost seventy years." The words echoed in his mind. He believed them; the evidence was all around him. People dressed differently, cars were smoother, and steel and glass buildings reached into the sky far above him. The comfortable brick and stone buildings had grown smaller as the buildings grew above them. It made him feel small.

He had no reason to distrust the men around him, S.H.I.E.L.D. as they called themselves, but he was still scrambling to find some way to relate to the new world.

The world had changed around him, and he didn't know if he could change fast enough to catch up with it.

* * *

><p>As he stepped out of his front door his shoulders tensed up. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and started to walk down the sidewalk. People bumped into his shoulders and pushed by him, so many people. The differences in their clothing and in the buildings were off-putting. Everything screamed 'wrong' at him and reminded him just how far he was from familiar.<p>

After he gave in to his impulse to stare at the buildings surrounding him, he felt almost engulfed by the skyscrapers. He felt like a tourist. Even though he lived in New York his whole life, he still stared like he was there for the first time; in a manner of speaking he was.

Suddenly a cry for help shot through the crowd. "SOMEONE HELP ME! PLEASE!" The desperation in the voice struck him as it always did.

The crowd barely paused. A few glanced up from their cell phones (Steve was still getting used to the idea of portable phones) before the phone's screen grabbed their attention again. The message was clear: not my business.

Steve's face hardened. Not that much had changed after all, and the world snapped into focus. For the first time since waking up, this was familiar, and he forced his way through the crowd, his movements sure.

The voice had fallen silent; Steve paused to listen. Where? A dull thud came from an alley; the sound of it twisting. Steve ran.

Men surrounded a miserable heap by the side of the alley. One looked up as Steve's shoes scrapped the pavement at the alley's entrance.

Steve met one of the men's eyes.

The thug said, "Move along," as his eyes never left Steve's. The threat in those eyes made Steve smile inwardly; he had met it many times before.

"How about you walk away?" Steve replied. The heap on the ground twitched, and Steve's eyes shifted towards it. He tilted his head carefully to the side his gaze penetrating the man. "And I let you go."

Everyone was listening now.

The one who had spoken laughed. "Is this guy for real?" His friends laughed harder. He dismissed Steve with a wave and turned back toward the heap. "Go back to playing hero. The real world doesn't have a place for you." Steve's eyes hardened and he stepped farther into the alley.

The men were not expecting that and actually took a step back before they realized how many they had against him. Steve smiled, they could count, not that it would matter; the outcome would be the same.

Steve stopped and shifted his feet for better balance.

The kid on the left bounced up and down, his shoulders and hands twitching. Steve watched the kid's eyes. _Eyes show where and how he fights. _The eyes blinked rapidly before steadying. The kid was going to rush him. The forward motion was in the eyes before the kid's foot touched the ground, and Steve blocked the blow before smashing the kid's face into the side of the alley. The twitchy kid crumpled. The casual and easy way Steve moved gave the others pause before indignation took over. The kid on the ground was their friend, and no one had the right to beat him up. _One._

The rest of the men had stopped smiling.

One grabbed a knife from his pocket and flicked it open; he jabbed it at Steve while his friends circled Steve for an opening. Steve smashed his elbow into the knife wielder's wrist. It broke with a snap that made the man gasp in pain. Then Steve punched the man in the face, and the man stumbled backward blinded and confused before falling to the ground. _Two._

Steve balanced lightly on his feet.

The scrapping of a boot behind Steve was the only warning Steve had before the one behind him tried to punch him in the kidneys. Steve spun to the side and kicked the man's knee in causing it to buckle the wrong way. The man fell clutching at his knee, pain making him incoherent. _Three._

Steve looked at the last man standing, the one who had spoken; the threat in the eyes was gone, instead the eyes held an emotion Steve was sure the man was not used to: fear.

"You have two choices," Steve stated, "You could run and save yourself a broken hand, or you could stay and break your hand. " Steve felt his knuckles tighten and shrugged, "I'm good with either."

The man stumbled backward and scrambled to his feet before running. _Four._

Steve watched him go. "Good choice." He left the other men moaning on the ground as he walked over to the heap. He knelt by it and turned the body over. It (or rather she) groaned. She was too badly beaten to do more than dazedly blink at him. He gently picked her up and carried her out.

* * *

><p>Mike was having a surreal day. Captain America was walking before him. The name itself was enough to bring back fond childhood memories, but the fact that Captain America was walking before him made him faint with excitement, a fact he was trying to ignore. His professional face was all he showed.<p>

After all, he was shadowing Captain America for the day.

Mike stopped beside a store's window as Captain America paused to look at a car in a showroom. He tapped his ear and said, "Agent Wilson reporting in."

"Base hears you. Go on."

"He is at the corner of third and first. Nothing's happening; he's just looking at things."

"I understand. Continue to follow him."

Mike grunted, and he paused before continuing. "Base…what is the reason for this?"

"Fury's orders."

Mike was silent for a moment. That was all Base really needed to say. Fury was a paranoid bastard, everyone knew that.

"Copy that. Wilson out."

Captain America disappeared into an alley up head. Mike casually walked over. When he realized what was happening, he tapped his ear again.

"Base?"

"We're listening, Agent Wilson."

"We are going to need an ambulance here."

* * *

><p>By the time Steve had reached the entrance of the alley, the ambulance lights were flashing in his face, and EMTs were rushing a gurney over to him.<p>

"Put her here, sir." One of them ordered Steve. Steve carefully laid her down, and then the gurney was moving. Steve stared after them.

"Here, sir." Steve looked around sharply at the new voice. A black suited man was motioning to him. "We have to get you home."

"How do you…." Steve stopped realization dawning. "You're with S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you following me?" His voice was steady, but there was a shift in it. Battle lines had been drawn. The man nodded.

"For how long?"

"We never lost you." Mike kept his face professional. A vein in his temple twitched nervously.

Steve regarded him silently and then turned to walk away.

He was a soldier, and he obeyed commands, but he never liked blatant distrust. Shadowing was distrustful when they knew he could take care of himself. He didn't know if he could trust them in return.

He didn't know if he wanted to.

The reality had shifted out of focus again.

* * *

><p>Steve strode into S.H.E.I.L.D. headquarters prepared for war. The receptionist's mouth gapped open as he walked up to her. "I'd like to see Director Fury."<p>

Her mouth snapped shut, and she picked up the phone. "D-Director Fury? " She looked at Steve disbelievingly as she said. "I have Captain America here to see you."

She nodded and set the phone down staring at it for a moment.

Steve shifted impatiently; her eyes snapped over to him. "You can go right up."

Fury sat back regarding Captain America with a passive face. "I don't think you see the threat you pose to the civilized world." Fury said deliberately. "Years after your disappearance millions were spent searching for the super-soldier serum, lives were lost, experiments failed."

Fury leaned forward. "Now that you're back, what do you think is going to be on certain peoples' mind?" He paused, "I don't like those odds."

Steve looked affronted, "Are you saying following me was for my protection?"

"You're dangerous, Rogers, and in more than one way. I don't know if the iced messed you up. Hell, I don't know you."

Steve raised an eyebrow, "That's bullshit, and you know it, _sir._ I think you're scared. I think you don't like someone you can't control."

"Do I look scared?" Fury asked sarcastically. He looked warningly at Steve. "I didn't get to be the head of a spy organization by trusting people. Paranoia is my job."

* * *

><p>Wilson pushed the transmitter's call button. "He's sitting on a park bench….drawing." He released it. Honestly, enough was enough. What was he still doing here? Captain America knew he was there. The casual glances in Mike's direction convinced him of that fact. This was bull.<p>

Joggers passed his park bench.

He glanced over to Captain America and saw him scribbling desperately in a note book. The desperation caught at Wilson; what was going through Captain America's head?

* * *

><p>Steve sat hand poised over a notebook. He stared at a tree noting the way it twisted and turned in the sky and the patterns of light and dark that speckled its bark. It was alive and moved. The moment of looking at it filled his mind and calmed his thoughts. He focused on it. His feelings of confusion and frustration filled his hands, and he drew with harsh dark lines. The pencil marks nearly tore through the paper.<p>

Her folder sat in his apartment, silent on his table. It dominated his imagination. His fingers hurt as he gripped the pencil harder; the memory of a glossy paper with her picture on his fingers.

_She's not here_, and a future with her can never be. His hand came down hard on the paper.

Why couldn't he have been faster? Or died the first time around? It would have been better than imagining something that can never be. _Imagining, more like tormenting_.

His eyes focused on the paper; in his eyes the feelings of loss usually buried behind distractions came to the surface and shimmered.

Darkened branches filled the page. A part of Steve that wasn't focused on his emotional turmoil liked the way the drawing was turning out. He could feel the emotions in the picture.

His heart and stomach felt empty as if he had taken the confusion and frustration from them and poured them onto the paper. He felt better.

The drawing was finished.

* * *

><p>He couldn't stand the emptiness of the apartment anymore. Dusk was drifting over the sky and spread its shadow over New York. The key sat cold in his hand as he locked the door and turned to walk down the hall. Evening thrust its way into the hallway and laid heavy over Steve's eyes turning the atmosphere sleepy.<p>

Talking was out of place; the idea of speaking made his mouth unwilling. The motion of his legs and the ground as his feet hit it grew into the background. He clenched his fists in his pockets for lack of something better to do with them.

He still felt out of focus.

Restlessness demanded him move, but with each step his disquiet shifted and clenched.

Harder and harder his feet hit the pavement until he was running, speeding past people with the wind whipping past his eyes. The world narrowed to the movement of his body and the rushing of the wind.

* * *

><p>"Shit." Wilson muttered as he tried to keep up with Captain America.<p>

Panting he stopped and pressed the call button. "Base, I lost him. He's gone."

* * *

><p>Steve didn't know how long he ran or even where he ran; the sense of running towards something, of having a purpose to run to, was intoxicating, but it came to an end too soon for Steve.<p>

The corner he turned was a dead end, and Steve stopped himself with his hands just before he hit the wall. He stood like that before he crumpled to his knees.

He didn't know why he was reacting like this or what he was feeling; the seething wall of emotion was overpowering. And it was growing.

His chest heaved.

He clenched his fists and everything out. "WHY?" He screamed.

* * *

><p>"He goes around, beats people up, and draws. That's all. It's making me depressed. Sir, he is self-destructing without a purpose. You have to give him a purpose or else we are going to lose him."<p>

Fury leaned back his fingers tapping a thick file on his desk thoughtfully. Wilson caught the words Avenger Initiative printed in bold across the front of it.

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

"Sir?"

Fury looked up, "Your analysis is noted."

Wilson waited.

Fury raised an eyebrow, "You're dismissed."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hey guys, this is a story my sister (The Cocky Undead) and I came up with. I'm writing all Steve's parts and my sister is writing all of Bucky/Winter Soldier's parts.  
>This story is meant to parallel Steve and Bucky's emotions. This first chapter is about Steve's sense of loss and purposelessness (we should have Bucky's chapter up soon).<br>Please let me know what you think! I love feedback! **


	2. Chapter 2

**[A Reason to Live]**

"_Bucky, no!" _

His eyes blinked open slowly. Bright lights assaulted him, making it painful to fully focus on his surroundings. He squeezed his eyes shut again, grimacing.

Bucky didn't know where he was or what was going on.

What he did know, however, was that he was still alive, which was a surprise for him. In those fleeting moments right before he hit the side of the mountain he knew that he was a dead man. No one could survive a fall like that.

But, apparently he could.

He shifted slightly on the hard cot that he was lying on. Bucky strained his memory as he tried to remember what had happened after he had hit the mountain. Nothing. He was met with an annoyingly blank set of memories.

His left arm twitched slightly at his side, pulling him from his thoughts. Just like that, Bucky suddenly remembered it all. He remembered Steve calling his name, falling, being dragged through the snow, his left arm bloody and half missing.

A burning in his arm, which had been a dull throb when he first woke up, suddenly spiked and Bucky's eyes flew open again.

A small, bald man, with round glasses stared down at him filling his vision, a pinched smile on his face. "Sargent Barnes."

Bucky glared at the man without speaking. He would have held his gaze, but the burning in his arm demanded to be felt, and he tore his eyes away from the small man to his arm. Silver metal met his gaze, and Bucky felt his chest tighten with both pain and fear. His entire left arm was encased in metal. It looked wrong lying against the white sheet that covered his body. Hell, it didn't just look wrong, it felt wrong. Because that was the thing, Bucky could _feel_ it. He felt the metal like it was part of his body, because now it was.

He swung his gaze back around to meet the eyes of the bald doctor. Bucky struggled to hide the emotions that he was sure were plain to see on his face.

"It's a shock, I'm sure." The man said to Bucky in what was supposed to be a sympathetic voice. "Don't worry, the pain should fade with time." He gave Bucky a thin smile, which did nothing to alleviate Bucky's fears.

A man in a white coat hovered at Bucky's side, a clipboard clutched in his hands. He saw that Bucky was awake and leaned over him, taking small notes.

Mistake, Bucky thought grimly. His metal arm obeyed his command and snatched the unfortunate man's neck in a tight grip.

The man choked and struggled in Bucky's immovable grasp. It wasn't until someone stabbed Bucky with a needle that immediately started to put him to sleep did he let go.

Bucky's eyes hazily moved back to the bald man, who smiled again and said. "You are to be the new face of Hydra."

Bucky's vision darkened, but not before he heard: "Put him on ice."

* * *

><p>When he woke again, he couldn't remember anything. Not his name, not where he was, not what he was. Nothing.<p>

He was surrounded by men in white coats and sometimes grim looking men with guns. He felt weightless as they did their tests on him, talking among themselves in excited whispers.

He didn't know what his purpose was, though he felt like he should be doing something. He was useless if he didn't have a purpose, this much he knew.

"Hey, eyes on me." Fingers snapped in front of his face, forcing him to focus on the suited man, who crouched before him. "Listen up, soldier, I'm sure you're feeling a little lost right now, but I need you to relax. We're going to show you the way. We're going to give you a purpose." He gave him a smile that seemed forced.

He nodded slowly because he knew that's what the suited man expected of him. He didn't know what was coming next, but at least now he had a reason and a purpose. That had to count for something.

The man had called him soldier. Perhaps that was his name and occupation now. Soldiers followed orders; they had purpose. They created order and sometimes chaos. He wondered which he would be ordered to do; chaos or order.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you cairistiona7 for reviewing! I appreciate it, and my sister does too. **


	3. Chapter 3

**[Purpose] **

Steve enjoyed the rush of wind on his face as he drove away from the other avengers. With Loki in Asgard and the Tesseract locked in its vaults the world looked cleaner and he felt as if a burden he was so used to carrying had been lifted. The freeing relief made him want to run for sheer joy; he didn't though, instead he set out determined to become comfortable with this new world.

* * *

><p>"Sir, I don't know where Rogers is." Mike spoke into his earpiece.<p>

"Could you repeat that?"

Mike closed his eyes, "He's not at his apartment, and he didn't trip any of the alarms when he left."

The silence over the earpiece was telling.

"He's gone."

* * *

><p>Distance.<p>

Miles and miles of land spread around him as the blacktop curved its way through the dust and the dirt. The road lay on top of the land as a foreign thing, set there for a time but never permanent. It was crust on a centuries old land.

Open sky took up half Steve's view and rocks the other half. It felt as if Steve could run forever; the sky wasn't hedged in with trees, and only mountains limited it as they jutted out into the vast blue.

The country was wild and half-tamed by cattle signs and straight fences.

Steve could feel the heat settling in his lungs as he breathed in the sun baked air. His whole body rebelled at the idea of moving in this heat. He drank some water from a Nalgene he brought from his bike's saddlebags. It seemed infinitely more precious now that the harshness of the land reminded him of its value. Life fought itself here, struggling to survive, but shot through with a rough joy. The struggle showed how good it was to live. Priorities were different here with the polish worn down, and comfort was food, drink, and a warm place to sleep. It didn't matter what kind of food or how soft the bed.

Survival had a way of stripping down everything unnecessary so that you were confronted with the truth of who you are.

Steve knew who he was, but change made him question himself. The friends he lost made him feel like there were pieces missing, leaving only empty space inside him. He didn't quite know himself anymore.

Steve put the water back in his bags and got back on his bike. He started the engine before pulling out onto the road.

His motorcycle ate up the miles and the road beneath wound through the country and small towns. The roar of other motorcycles behind him caused his hair on the back of his neck stand up; the wind rushing past his ears made any other sound loud enough to be heard startling. The motorcycles' sound increased until the bikers were right behind him. It was enough to make Steve want to wave a hand to say go on ahead of me or flip them the birdy if he was less polite.

The motorcycles rode on his tail until the time came that they had to do something, because they were too impatient to wait any longer. The biker line streamed past him, and one in passing held up a finger. _Great. Nice to meet you too. Goodbye. _

The feeling left behind by the bikers was gone by the time Steve turned into a motel. The sky was streaked with red.

Steve had read the Iliad one winter during 1931. The library was warmer than the streets outside, and he was tired of trying to stay warm. "Rosy-fingered Dawn" was a line that struck him with its vividness. It was appropriate now with the sun reaching its red fingers far across the sky; except it wasn't dawn, it was evening. Still the streaks of red and orange reminded Steve of that line. It had been a long time since he had read it (more than 70 years), but that line had fit into his mind like his mind was made with it missing and when found, it stuck with him.

The growing darkness chased away the rosy fingers as Steve watched.

The motel was nothing special and the dark gathering around merely hid its blemishes caused by passing time, but Steve was tired enough not to care about the peeling paint and tired atmosphere. The door chimed as he walked through, and a small Mexican woman looked up from the front desk. She looked passively at him. Steve got the feeling she was scowling on the inside. "The room is $100 per night."

Steve wondered if that was expensive for today. "Sure, that'll be fine. Thanks. "

He peeled a few bills from his wallet and signed in to his room.

The room was the same as millions across the country; Steve could swear he had seen it 70 years ago when traveling with his show during the war. The bed neatly made, and the room impersonal.

With so many people sleeping there, it was no surprise the room felt as if their ghosts had lingered long enough to make sure you didn't feel comfortable enough to treat the room as anything besides a motel room. Steve set his soft leather bag down and lay down on the bed. The soft mattress felt wonderful after the hours of buzzing wind and his bike's vibrations running through his body.

He must have dozed off; the room was dark and his stomach was growling when his eyes opened again. Groaning he sat up and stretched. His muscles popped and his body relaxed into a half-awake haze. His eyes felt fuzzy, and he rubbed them irritably.

His stomach growled again.

He grabbed his jacket off the chair and walked out the door before he could change his mind about facing the world and all the people in it while he felt half asleep and unable to interact. He would wake up soon enough and he didn't need to say anything besides what he wanted to eat and drink.

The town he stopped in was no bigger than a few neighborhoods and a main street. The sign welcoming him to the town had read Lander, WY, population: 7,732. To Steve it was just above the kind of town that was mentioned on the map because it had a gas station. The people living here would deny that and compare their town to the next place over, which wasn't mentioned on the map and had a population of exactly three, four if you were counting during Christmas. _Compared to that, this place was a metropolis_. Steve thought sarcastically.

Main Street had a few places to eat; the main ones being a Mexican restaurant and a bar. Steve didn't feel like rice and beans so he turned to the bar.

Gannet Grill filled the entire brick building with outside seating along its left side. It stood apart from all other buildings and was separated into one side for families, while the other side was the actually bar. Motorcycles lined the sidewalk of the bar reminding Steve horses tied up in front of a western saloon when laws where enforced by might and sometimes the law of the tyrant ruled instead of the law of the just.

Steve shook off that feeling. This wasn't the west, and not everyone who had motorcycles was a hulking man used to having their own way. He had a motorcycle, and Stark would say that he was the farthest person from enforcing by might. He did what was right because it was right.

The door swung shut behind him as he walked into the bar section of the place. The bar was filled with bikers and one or two families having a night out. Bikers crowded around the bar filling it with loud laughter and the thunk of glasses being slammed down.

Steve made his way over to the bartender and leaned against the bar. The bartender wandered over to him. "What can I get you?"

"A meal."

The bartender laughed. "We have that. Burger? Fries?"

"Sounds good."

"Anything to drink?"

Steve thought for a moment. Not that there was much point to having a beer if he couldn't actually feel it. "I'll have a Guinness." That one was at least familiar.

Steve found a seat by one of the families. As he leaned back he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.

The sounds of the bar merged into memories of his old team, with the clink of glass and the smell of beer and smoke providing a background; the sounds were the same in any time. He didn't think of one memory in particular, but the general feeling of contentment and being with friends; friends' faces and the feeling he associated with them came into his mind. He couldn't quite believe that they were gone no matter how often he visited their graves. They were still young and alive in his mind. He missed them with a sharp ache that hurt physically.

His food was set down with a clatter making him start.

"Thank you."

As he started to eat raucous laughter came from the bar and a biker with long hair staggered away beer in hand laughing. Steve tensed. Only those who knew him would have noticed it.

_He might not be a bully._

A boy from the table next to him stood up and started for the restroom, his dad a few seconds behind. Unfortunately their path crossed the drunken biker's.

The little boy didn't look where he was going in his hurry to get to the bathroom and his dad was a little too slow to stop him before he ran into the biker.

The biker spilled his beer on himself, and the little boy stumbled backward. His dad grabbed a hold of him protectively. The biker growled. The little boy's eyes widened.

_Then again he might be a bully_, Steve thought.

"Sorry about that." The dad started to say.

"You better be.

The biker stepped up to the dad's face in the usual aggressive alpha mode. Steve rolled his eyes.

Steve stood up, and everyone's eyes shot over to him.

"The boy didn't mean to run into you. Just let it go."

"You planning on making me?" The biker said.

The man was looking for a fight so desperately he was willing to fight over a tiny thing; either that or he had pride issues.

"If I have to."

"If I have to." The biker mocked him.

The biker raised his hands to shove at Steve, and as he was coming forward Steve pivoted out of the way.

The rush of adrenaline made his heart beat faster and his movements quick. The biker's momentum continued forward, and as he was stumbling forward Steve grabbed his head, swung behind him, and locked the biker's head in place with his other arm.

Each moment felt fast and slow at the same time; he knew he was moving fast and that was making everyone else look slow. Steve twisted the man to the ground and hit him to keep him down.

He backed up breathing evenly.

The fight seemed to last for hours in Steve's mind, but the whole thing took three seconds.

Silence.

It overpowered everyone's ability to speak and left them afraid to open their mouths to break it. He sat back down and started to eat, because food was food and he was still hungry.

The family was shocked at the violence and speed he showed. They hadn't processed what just happened.

Neither had the group by the bar. Their laughter had stopped, and a few looked at their friend who was on the floor moaning. Steve wasn't sure the silent peace would last.

The biker stumbled to his feet after he pulled himself to his knees; he shook his head as if that would help clear the daze. Steve knew from experience that shaking it only made it worse even if the act of shaking it made you feel like as if you were doing something.

With a sidelong glance at Steve, Steve couldn't tell whether it was to make sure Steve stayed where he was or to wonder where that aggression came from, the biker crept back to his gang; the loud swagger he had before was noticeable lacking its voice.

"_Full of sound and fury/ Signifying nothing." _

Steve stood up again, walked over to the bartender and pulled out a ten. He grabbed his food and started walking out the door. He didn't really want to spoil the moment with talking.

"Thanks." The little boy said as Steve turned to the door.

Steve gave him a smile.

As he sat on his bed in the motel room afterwards the quiet made him think. There was no noise to distract him. The unsettled feeling of the world shifting out of focus was missing. Steve no longer felt as his foot had come down on air when he had been excepting firm ground.

The empty places that ached felt a little better now that he wasn't looking inward and dwelling on them; the pain was older and more bearable as if the layers were knitting themselves back together.

His sense of loss was healing.

The silence no longer bothered him, because he knew where he stood in the world.

He didn't like bullies not before and certainly not now, but he didn't have to face them alone just as he didn't have to face this unfamiliar world alone. His friends were dead, but that didn't mean he had to turn into an empty body that lived only because it moved. New friends could ease the ache if he let them.

The leather bag was smooth in his hand as he walked to his bike the next morning. He kicked the ignition of his motorcycle and it started with a roar the gradually grew louder until it settled into a deep-throated growl. He pulled onto the highway back to New York and set himself against the rising sun, with his mind quiet and only the rush of movement to fill it.

Purpose.

He was running again but was no longer running away from something; he was running towards something.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for everyone's patience, and cairistiona7, keep your wonderful reviews coming. They are really encouraging for my sister and I. <strong>


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